


A Way To Hide the Agony

by spaceconspiracy



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceconspiracy/pseuds/spaceconspiracy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor doesn't want to love the Master. Oh, but he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Way To Hide the Agony

**Author's Note:**

> I'M WRITING SLASHLORDS SMUT. SOMEBODY STOP ME. I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. Title comes from a Disturbed song that's so Slashlords it hurts.  
> This was supposed to be fluff, but oh well.

The skin of his face is soft beneath his knuckles.

The Doctor's not used to it, though you'd think by now he'd grown accustomed to his companion's (if that's even the right word) constant shifts in appearance. Not only does he look different, he feels different, sounds different.

If he were to be completely honest, this incarnation would have to be one of his favorites. The circumstances are tricky, yes, but he's as beautiful as ever, the Doctor thinks.

He just can't help believing that maybe this will be the last time.

The Master stirs beneath the Doctor's touch, but does not awake, and for that he is grateful. He's not ready to talk, not just yet. They'll have time for that later, he's hoping, but even if things go wrong (again) and this is the last time, he's okay with that. He's content with just feeling him.

He allows his long, elegant fingers to trail down the side of his face, across his jawline, over his neck. They're tracing along his collarbone by the time the electrical shocks they're ensuing register, but he doesn't mind. Not at all, not ever.

Both of his hands are dancing across his shoulder blades, down his arms, thumbs brushing against his sides, over his hips. The other Time Lord shudders then, a sigh escaping his lips, curling around the Doctor's heart and squeezing it.

He can't tell you how the two of them got here, wrapped in each other and discarded clothing, in the dead of a night that can't exist because there is no sun outside the TARDIS window's. Only far away stars, stretching far beyond either of them can see, enticing and beckoning.

The Doctor looks at the Master's face again, fingers still settled on his wrists. He doesn't want to love him, he doesn't. It wouldn't be a good idea for either of them.

Oh, but he does.

He presses his mouth against the Master's ear, murmuring the latter's name in their native language, causing something to curl low in his stomach. He doesn't bother with trying to identify it, because he knows he never could.

The other Time Lord shifts again, turning onto his side, hand feeling blindly. The Doctor meets it halfway with his own, interlocking their fingers, and a small smile finds it's way across the Master's face. It looks good there. He should smile more often.

“It's alright,” the Doctor murmurs more to himself than the other. “Everything will be just fine, just this once.”

“I know,” the Master replies, not quite startling the Doctor – he fully expected him to respond. “Just this once.”

The Doctor's on fire inside, both of his hearts racing beyond belief, but he doesn't dare dream of sharing this information. He simply moves his face closer to the Master, who reciprocates – they meet in the middle, foreheads pressed together, mouths locking, covering each other. There's no movement, just one long steady kiss, and the Doctor moves his free hand, laying his palm across the Master's chest, right in the middle. Beneath it, he can feel both of his heart's beating, slower and steadier than his own, and it's rather marvelous, that feeling of two hearts rather than the single beat he's long since grown accustomed to over the past few years.

“You taste good this time,” the Master mumbles against the Doctor's mouth, pulling his hand from the Doctor's and slowly trailing it over his torso, until it's resting at the small of his back. “The last time I saw you, ooh. We should have a talk about that.”

“We're not going to,” the Doctor allows himself a chuckle.

“No, perhaps not,” his lover (a word that still doesn't quite work, but is more appropriate than companion) presses his hand into the Doctor's back, their mouths finding each other again; there's more force behind it this time, and they're both fighting for control.

The Master wins (and the Doctor can certainly use that as a play on his name) and is soon straddling the other Time Lord, fingers digging into his shoulders. He catches the Doctor's bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing on it gently in a way that the Doctor always liked, even if he never admitted it.

Their respective arousal's are already evident between them and their bodies are involuntary pressing as close to each other as they can get, new skin against new skin. This isn't the first time in these new bodies, but it's still all so fresh that each time is more about discovery than anything else.

The Master pulls away, drawing a shame-worthy whine from the Doctor, who's fingers wrap around the others waist by themselves. The other Time Lord gives a long, amused laugh, as he settles his entrance over the Doctor's erection.

“Never one for foreplay, you were,” the Doctor observes, is head thrown back against the pillows. He's not sure if it's because of the unbearable heat between them, or because he can't bring himself to look at Master's face. More than likely, it's both.

“Neither were you,” the Master offers a sly smile, and then he's pushing the Doctor into him with his body, and nothing else matters.

Nothing but the two of them, the Last of the Time Lord's, rocking against each other, breathing too hard, four heats beating much faster than they ought to. Their calling each others name's, in Gallifreyan, their real names, and that hurts the Doctor. He hasn't heard his real name spoken in a very long time. He doesn't even dare whisper it to himself when no one's around.

It's over before it's really had a chance to begun, and stars they've both seen very much of are exploding behind their eyes, like fireworks ricocheting in the confines of their skulls. The Master's face is buried into the Doctor's shoulder, whose holding him tightly, nails biting into the back of his neck.

“Just this once,” the Master repeats.

The Doctor finishes his sentence. “Everything's alright.”

They stay like that for a long time.


End file.
